


Realisation

by soy_em



Series: Distraction [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Jealous Dean Winchester, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e11 Regarding Dean, Season/Series 12, Sex in the Impala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11570859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soy_em/pseuds/soy_em
Summary: After Dean gets his memory back, Sam has to deal with the consequences of Dean losing his inhibitions. Trouble is, he has no way of knowing whether Dean remembers anything or not.





	1. Chapter 1

Sam knows it makes him a bad person, but he’s actually kind of glad they haven’t seen their mom for a while. He just doesn’t know how he would look her in the eye right now. He’s struggling, and at least without Mom around he’s got one less family member to worry about. 

Family. 

That’s the problem.

Ever since Dean lost his memory and ...things...happened, family is one of two words that thrums through his head every minute of the day, sometimes even waking him up at night in a cold sweat. The other word is brother. 

Because Dean is his family, Dean is his brother, and therefore the thoughts he’s having, the dreams, the way his mind drifts when he’s in the shower, in the minutes between waking and sleeping, it’s all so very wrong.

Sam’s pessimistic thoughts are interrupted by said brother slamming the door open as he comes into the bunker, hands full of beer and shopping. “Oy, Sammy,” he shouts. “Lend a hand.”

Dean had been out for a couple of hours, doing their monthly supply run. Apparently, despite the many magical properties of the bunker, it didn’t automatically restock on toilet paper. It had been a real learning curve for them both - neither of them had ever really had a fixed home, and their few intermittent attempts had been with women who were used to living civilian life and running regular shops. They’d learned the hard way to make sure to replace the toilet roll before it ran out, as well as having to buy laundry detergent and other cleaning supplies. Sam has never felt the weight of his life choices, his decision to be with Dean, as much as he had in the queue at their first major walmart shop as they pushed a trolley full of toilet bleach and washing up liquid. 

Carrying in the shopping is the kind of mindless task that allows his brain to run riot these days. He follows Dean to and from the kitchen, and finds himself idly noting the strength of his brother’s shoulders, the way Dean’s hands capably juggle the fruit he bought for Sam, how his brother’s legs bow out as he crouches to get under the sink, they way Dean’s jean’s tighten over his ass. 

It’s been happening ever since Dean lost his memory and got it back, this casual appraisal of how beautiful Dean is that both his upstairs brain and, distressingly, his downstairs brain are carrying on without his permission.

It’s like he’s become aware, in a way he hasn’t been since he was a teenager and jealous of the way girls flocked to his brother, that Dean is superlatively beautiful. He’s always known objectively, has taken advantage of it for a case many times as Dean has flirted them out of trouble or into information, but now - now that knowledge is real, and intimate. 

He can’t help but remember the easy, loose way Dean had stood in front of him, all the tension gone from his body, offering himself to Sam like it was totally normal. Kissing Sam like it was totally normal. He remembers the way that muscle had felt under his hands, the warmth of Dean and his familiar, comforting smell. He remembers the way Dean had been ready and willing to be directed, to do whatever would best please Sam. Most of all, he remembers the way Dean tasted, like beer and mint and safety; the plush feel of his brothers’ lips on his; the little noises Dean had made at the back of his throat. 

Sam has blocked so many things out over the years, has repressed so many memories that’s he’s happy to say he’s an expert, but none of his techniques seem to work for this. Apparently, incestuous memories are so disgusting, make him such a terrible person that even his subconscious, with its memories of hell and torture, doesn’t want them and is forcing the memories to the forefront of his conscious mind. 

“Earth to Sam,” Dean says, lobbing an orange at him which hits him in the shoulder. “You alright?” 

Sam has been caught staring again, that much is obvious. Hopefully it was at something more innocent than Dean’s ass (unlike last time). 

“Fine,” he says, distracted. 

“Uh huh,” Dean says. He looks intently at Sam, and then smirks, turning his back and wiggling his butt, just ever so slightly. So slightly that Sam would never have noticed if he hadn’t been laser-focused on it already. Dean looks back over his shoulder at Sam, almost coquettish, and says, “You coming?”

Sam sputters. There’s no more elegant way of putting it, he sputters and stares, and again, Dean smirks.

Not for the first time, Sam wonders if Dean had been telling the truth when he said he didn’t remember anything.

*** 

They’re in a bit of a lull, in terms of work. Ramiel is dead, Kelly Kline is in the wind, with Cas tracking her, and Sam really, really doesn’t want to know what Rowena is up to. He can’t bear the thought of having to see Rowena’s knowing smirk any time soon. He’s scoured the internet for possible cases, desperate to get out on a hunt, but for once, America’s supernatural beings seem quiet. 

That leaves him and Dean puttering around the bunker, taking care of all the chores that they put off during cases. That’s another thing Sam had more or less forgotten: how much work goes into keeping a home just ticking over. He and Dean had sat down a while back and created a painstaking schedule of who was to clean which toilet when; who would drive the garbage to the nearest bins; and what chores Sam would take over in return for Dean being solely responsible for the cooking (it was in everyone’s best interests). On top of routine housework, they’re still working their way through the bunker’s extensive hoard of supernatural paraphernalia; there are whole rooms of neatly filed boxes they haven’t searched through methodically, and with Lucifer’s son potentially about to be born into the world, now seems like a good time.

Dean, of course, is not a big fan of sitting down for extensive periods to research obscure artifacts or read through old case notes from the 1940s. They’re sitting at the main table in the bunker now, surrounded by files from the early part of 1947, and Dean is getting visibly frustrated. He’s tapping his fingers, leaning backwards and then forwards incessantly and sighing loudly at intervals. 

Sam is well-versed in Dean - how could he not be after living in each other’s pockets for most of their lives? He’s normally able to easily drown out his brother’s ridiculous, childish behaviour through immersing himself in lore. But now, since the spell, he’s hyper-aware of Dean’s every movement. Each time Dean leans forwards, the detail of the freckles across the bridge of his nose and his perfect, thick eyelashes come into view; when he leans back, his old band t-shirt stretches across the muscles of his chest in a way that leaves little to the imagination. 

Sam has barely gotten used to this more casual version of Dean since they’ve been living in the bunker; out on the road, they both drown themselves in layers of clothing in case they have to run, or on the off-chance that something nasty gets spilled on them (they’d learnt that lesson the hard way); but here, Dean is usually just in a tshirt and soft track pants, often even barefoot. It lends him a fragility that hurts Sam’s heart a little; and creates a sense of domesticity that highlights their shared life together.

Looking at Dean now, Sam could swear that he can see his brother’s (frustratingly perky) nipples through the thin fabric. Before he can stop himself, his mind wanders off into wondering whether Dean would squirm if Sam bit them, and imagining the noises Dean would make. 

He almost growls when he catches himself. On top of the instinctive repulsion at the thought of incest is the knowledge that he’s turning into one of the men he’s always hated: the men who visibly and consistently objectify his brother.

He’s been aware, since he was small, that Dean attracted attention. Girls at school would swoon, and suddenly be Sam’s best friend, when they realised who his brother was. Older women in motels would find ways to bring them food, or move them to a better room, after one of Dean’s blinding smiles. Guys at every school they went to flocked around Dean, trying to get his attention, or just hoping to hook up with the girls drawn into his orbit. Dean had loved all of that; somehow soaked up the smiles and the approval without letting it spoil him.

But Dean had hated the way men looked at him. Even at 9 or 10, Sam had been aware of the way men would hesitate by their table, looking at his brother; of the catcalls that had followed them across parking lots later at night and the way teachers at their new schools would sometimes find themselves spellbound for a few moments before pulling themselves together. More times than he could remember, Sam had seen John approach a leering man, fists clenched, before the guy very rapidly vacated the area; or had watched as John hustled Dean into the car, or walked his son into motel rooms with a protective arm around his shoulder. 

As Sam had gotten older, and Dean had been left to look after them both more frequently, Sam had become aware of what the men had said to Dean and the offers they made. They’d frequently promised money, which Dean had always rejected with rude words and a shudder; but in retrospect, Sam now wonders if Dean had sometimes felt forced to accept in order to put food on the table. Every time his mind wanders down that track, the fury he feels is so strong that he can’t bear to think about it, mind skittering away.

So when Sam finds himself staring at his brother, mind caught up for endless minutes in how pretty Dean is, how goddamn sexy he finds his brother’s every move, he can’t help but think he’s objectifying his brother in the same way, perving over him in a manner that Dean would find repulsive. 

With an internal groan, he buries his head back in the dusty files, swearing that he’ll ignore Dean and his perky nipples until the end of time. 

***

Dean’s been more touchy-feely than usual lately. Sam doesn’t know if it’s just because things have actually been right with them for the past couple of years; or if their mother’s reappearance has made Dean a little more vulnerable; or if it’s something else altogether; but he’s noticed it a lot recently. 

They’ve never had much concept of personal space, growing up crowded into the back seat of the Impala or crushed together in a single motel bed. Their arms always brush when they walk, their knees press together when they’re sitting side by side, and their elbows find each other’s ribs more than is strictly comfortable. But now, Sam finds himself with Dean’s feet in his lap in the evenings, Dean’s arm hooked around his shoulders a few times a day, Dean’s head drooping onto his shoulder late at night. He knows it’s a recent change, but he can’t put his finger on just how recent. There’s a little voice in his head saying that it’s only been happening since the spell, but he’s trying resolutely to ignore that. There’s no way that Dean remembers anything from that time, his memory was so shot; so it’s just Sam’s wishful thinking.

***

 

It’s late the next evening when Sam finally pushes the last file from 1948 away from him. He’s been immersed all day in a fascinating case about shifters and how they reproduce; reminding him of that case with the babies when he’d been soulless. It’s not a time he generally likes to think of; but that case had been different. His brother had loved looking after little Bobby-John and had been devastated to give the baby up. Sometimes Sam thinks that the greatest tragedy of their lives is that Dean will never get to be a father.

Unwilling to dwell any longer on that thought, he leans back, cracking his neck and stretching out cramped muscles. Raising his hands to the ceiling, he feels his shoulder pop and sighs at the advance of age on his body.

The bunker is quiet, and he wonders where Dean is. He hasn’t seen his brother for a few hours; after spending half the afternoon researching, Dean had become increasingly fidgety and finally stalked off, muttering something about the garage and testing out the cars there. He’d come back into the main room to shove a plate of food under Sam’s nose a few hours ago, but Sam has hasn’t seen him since. 

Sam can feel himself getting restless now at the realisation of how long it’s been since he saw his brother; it’s been this way between them ever since he can remember, both of them feeling the aching need to check in with each other at regular intervals. Sam can ignore it, of course, he’d been able to suppress it for four years at Stanford; but he’s long since stopped wanting to.

He sets off in search of his brother, long legs carrying him through the bunker. Dean’s not in the kitchen or his room, and when Sam pokes his head into the garage there’s no sign of him there either, although his tools are still laid out next to one of the cars.

He finally works out where Dean is when he hears his brother’s off-key warbling emerging from the main shower room. Sam shouldn’t be surprised; he thinks that Dean has an unhealthy fixation with the bunker showers, and Dean absolutely does not care what Sam thinks and takes the longest showers ever anyway. 

Content now that he knows Dean’s whereabouts, he’s about to head towards his own room when the bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam billows out. It’s like something from a bad eighties music video, the steam sweeping upwards and obscuring the light. Sam snorts, wondering how Dean could possible create this much steam from one shower.

He’s so busy snickering to himself that he’s not prepared for his brother to emerge from the cloud, bare skin gleaming and droplets trailing down to the towel wrapped around his waist. Dean hair is spiked up adorably, and the heavy muscles of his chest and arms are on full display.

Sam’s laughter dies in his throat along with his ability to breathe. His brain decides to go on holiday, all the useful blood that usually powers it heading rapidly south, and he actually gurgles at Dean, unable to form words. 

Dean smirks. He smoothes one hand down his chest, spreading water droplets down to the dubious barrier of the towel, but his eyes lock onto Sam’s, burning with intensity. 

They stand, unmoving, for a long moment. 

“Like what you see, Sam?”

The words and the low, intimate tone catapult Sam back into that motel room a few weeks ago, when he’d so nearly crumbled in the face of Dean’s undeniable charm. Sam’s voice stays on vacation and he’s unable to find the words to respond, mouth opening and closing without success.

It feels like they’re trapped there forever, Dean not moving and Sam unable to. Finally, Dean sighs. 

“Night, Sammy,” he says quietly, and walks down the hall. Sam can’t help watching him go, eyes drawn to the dimples of his back peeking above the towel. He’s so fucked.

***

Sam downs most of a bottle of whiskey that evening in an attempt to shut his brain down. It takes that much to stop his mind from fixating on the vision of his brother he’d seen earlier, and to keep his hand out of his pants.

He wakes up the next morning feeling like shit. He’s not used to hangovers; heavy drinking has always been Dean’s chosen method of oblivion, not his. He makes his way to the kitchen painfully, and slowly, hoping that Dean has some coffee ready for him and beyond pleased that they have no plans for today.

“Wakey wakey, Sammy,” Dean says, already dressed and looking cheerful. “Rise and shine!” He’s obnoxiously loud and he grins as he waves a coffee cup at Sam, playing a short game of ‘keep away’ before taking pity and handing the cup over. “You look like shit,” he continues.

“Fucking thanks,” is Sam’s only response, before he buries his nose over the cup, inhaling deeply.

“Aww, poor Sammy,” Dean croons. “Feeling a bit delicate, are we?”

“Fuck off.”

“Poor little brother.” Dean rubs his hand through Sam’s hair and Sam shudders, stomach roiling.

“Do that again and I’ll throw up on you,” he threatens weakly, and Dean throws his head back with laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finally snaps

Dean seems to step up the touching after that. And the casual nudity. 

It feels like everywhere Sam looks, Dean is posing, provocative, against the wall, or draped across the sofa, trouser legs riding high to reveal the golden skin of Dean’s lower legs. Sam has even found himself fantasising about Dean’s ankles, wondering what it would be like to bite them, or hold them in his hands as he pushes Dean’s legs in the air. 

Even worse, everytime Sam moves, Dean is behind him, or beside him, brushing against him or squeezing his shoulder. Little touches between them are strung out now, lasting longer than they should; and Sam feels time is slowing down, allowing him to feel every whorl of Dean’s fingertips as they ghost over his forearm. 

Sam still can’t find a case, America’s supernatural beings conspiring against him to string out his misery, and it feels like he’s going crazy.

***

“I’m going mental,” Dean announces at lunch. “I feel so cooped up in here. Can’t you find us a case, Sammy?”

“I told you, there’s nothing,” Sam replies, watching with mild revulsion as Dean shovels potato salad into his mouth. (“It’s got salad in the name, Sammy. Gotta be healthy!”)

“Nothing at all? Nothing that’s even a hint of a sniff of a case?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Dean subsides back into his chair, looking intensely put out, and silence reigns over their turkey sandwiches.

But ultimately Dean is not to be put off. “Ok, Sammy,” he says, serious. “No case. Fine. That means for once we’ve got a bit of a holiday. Let’s go out and get shitfaced!”

“Dean, you get shitfaced almost every night in the bunker. Why do you need to go out to do it?” Sam keeps his tone mocking, careful as ever not to prod too deeply at his brother’s drinking habits. Besides, Dean is barely drinking at all at the moment compared to the way he has in the past. 

“Why, Sammy?” Dean falls for it, his voice incredulous. “Because I’m going fucking nuts in here! We need to get out and live our lives while we’re still young.”

“While I’m still young, you mean?” 

“Fuck you, Sam. Just for that I’m gonna dump your drunk ass in a puddle tonight when I’m carrying your lightweight self home.”

“Who says I’m gonna be the drunk one?”

“You’re always the drunk one.”

It feels so achingly normal to bicker like this, and Sam lets himself believe that going out drinking with his brother is a good idea.

***

It’s not. 

That becomes apparent about three shots in, as Dean’s moist lips catch on the edge of the shot glass and Sam’s eyes fixate on Dean’s mouth. Dean’s eyes are lazy, slipping closed as he tips his head back in bliss before they flutter open and lock onto Sam. He slams the shot glass down, never breaking eye contact, and licks his lips with a noise of contentment, almost a purr. 

“Nothing like a nice warm shot, is there Sam?” 

“I’ll get another,” Sam say, voice strangled, and almost trips over his own feet on the way to the bar. 

When he gets back with two new tequilas and two beers, Dean is leant back in his chair, surveying the room. Snagging the beer out of Sam’s fingers, Dean inclines his head. “What do you think, Sammy?” he says, jutting his chin. Sam swivels round, and sees a girl leaning against the bar, skirt tight against her thighs and hair curling across her shoulders. She’s deep in conversation with one of the bartenders at the moment, but Sam has absolutely no doubt that one look from Dean will win her away, and his stomach tightens. 

“I thought we were here to get drunk?” he says, trying his very best not to sound like a bitchy little brother. 

“Mhhmm,” Dean hums, body loose and relaxed, but his eyes are still scanning the room. 

Sam pouts, and then downs his shot, shuddering as it burns down his throat. Dean grants him an approving smile. “Attaboy, Sam.” He tosses his own drink back with barely a flinch, and resumes his predatory look around the bar.

“Oh, another option. What do you think?” 

This time, when Sam turns in his seat, he’s faced with a man. A tall, broad shouldered man with hair so dark it looks almost jet black in the dim bar. He’s facing the Winchesters while chatting with a friend, and Sam can see sharp cheekbones and a wide, red mouth. He’s wearing a tshirt with a deep enough vee that Sam can also see the start of defined muscles, and maliciously, Sam wonders what he’s doing wearing clothes like that in a redneck bar like this.

At first he thinks Dean is teasing him, and he scowls. But when he turns back to his brother, Dean’s gaze is still locked on the guy, assessing, and Sam is just in time to see Dean wink.

His mouth opens in shock. Never has Dean given any indication that he might be into guys, not once (except for during the spell incident, but Sam is trying to not think about that). He and Dean have lived together more or less permanently for the last 12 years, and they grew up sharing a room, and now he’s suddenly finding out that Dean is into guys? It’s not like he cares, but he does desperately care that his brother has never told him. And more importantly, one of his main reasons for resistance over the past weeks has just gone merrily flying out of the window.

He shoves his way to his feet again and heads towards the bar, mind in turmoil. 

He only stumbles a little as he makes his way across, and within a couple of minutes he has two more shots. He’s staring at them, trying to decide whether to take one back to Dean or drink them both himself, so he doesn’t notice the girl Dean had been staring at earlier drift across the bar towards him.

“Hey, I’m Louise,” she stays, and he jumps, wildly, almost knocking one of the shots over. The girl - Louise - reaches out and steadies it with a grin, and Sam looks up at her through his hair. She really is gorgeous, just Dean’s type, and he wonders why she’s talking to him.

“Sam,” he stutters, holding out a hand to shake before realising its sticky with spilt tequila and quickly withdrawing it.

Louise stares at him for a moment, clearly expecting him to say something else, but Sam’s mind is still running at double speed and he can’t quite work out what is called for in this situation.

Eventually, Louise takes pity. “You planning on drinking those?” she asks, inclining her head at the tequilas. 

“Uh, yeah,” Sam replies. “Or one of them anyway.” He suddenly remembers his manners. “You want one?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asks, head tilted and mouth curved, and Sam gapes at her.

“No, of course not!”

She looks at him and sighs, and then plucks one of the shots out of his hands, raising her eyebrow.

“Cheers,” she says, tilting the glass, clearly waiting for Sam to do the same, and Sam stumbles to catch up. The tequila burns even more this time, making him choke a little, but Louise downs hers like a pro, with barely even a flinch. She giggles slightly at his reaction.

“I’m gonna guess you’re not a big drinker usually?” 

“Not really,” Sam replies, shy.

“Well maybe we should have something lighter this time? You wanna grab a beer?” 

Sam thinks for a minute. Maybe having a drink with a pretty girl is exactly what he needs to take his mind off of Dean (and, his brain supplies, if he’s with Louise then Dean won’t be).

“Yeah, sure,” he says, gesturing to the bartender. Louise grins at him and hops up onto a barstool.

“So where are you from? I thought I knew everyone around here?”

Just as the two bottles are put down in front of him, Sam feels a hand settle low on his back. Startled, he turns to find Dean behind him, so close they’re almost pressed together.

“One of them better be for me, Sammy.”

“Uh,” is all Sam can manage, and vaguely, he wonders what’s happened to his words tonight.

“Or did you buy the lady a drink?” Dean’s voice is low, and almost dangerous, and Sam shudders. Dean’s hand is still warm on his back, and his brother has moved so that their shoulders are fully pressed together.

“That one was for me,” Louise interjects. “But believe me, I am more than willing to share.” She’s looking at Dean with an almost predatory intent, eyes lit up like Christmas. “I’m up for getting a third.”

Sam’s more than willing to admit that his brain seems to have gone on vacation, but he thinks that Louise is suggesting a threesome, and his brain almost short circuits.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean replies, hand slipping around to Sam’s hip. “You keep yours. I’ll share his.”

With that, he hooks Sam’s beer in his free hand and presses firmly on Sam’s hip, leading him away from the bar. Sam can’t help but comply; he’s never not been able to follow where Dean leads. Louise watches them, somehow managing to look both intensely put out and very turned on.

When they’re back at their table, Dean steers Sam into his seat.

“What the hell was that, Sam?” he asks, indignant. “I thought we were here to get drunk together?” 

Sam thinks he has a right to be a little pissed off at that. “You were the one scoping out the options,” he says. “I can’t help it if one of your choices wanted to have a drink with me.”

Dean’s scowl is epic.

“Just because I was looking doesn’t mean I would’ve abandoned you. But you seem fine with abandoning me.”

“Dean, you’ve abandoned me for a girl a million times.” Sam can’t help but sound little brother defensive. “And I wasn’t going to abandon you. She just wanted to have a beer.” 

“Sure she did.” Dean’s voice is mocking, and Sam doesn’t get it. It’s not like the girl was hitting on him. He stares at Dean for a moment, frustrated. Dean stares right back, and Sam curses their Winchester inability to communicate properly.

Suddenly, Dean shoves their shared beer bottle at him. “I’ll go get myself another.” He’s on his feet before Sam can respond, weaving his way towards the bar. 

Sam sinks back in the booth, tipping his head back. The room spins ever so gently, music pulsing in his ears. He thinks, grimly, that despite the fact that he and Dean can read each other so well, know when the other is distressed and can live together with minimal bickering; they still can’t communicate worth a damn when it really matters. There’s clearly something aggravating his brother, and Sam is no more capable of asking Dean what it is than he is of reading Dean’s mind. He growls softly to himself, wanting Dean to be back in his eyeline as soon as possible.

When he gathers his swirling brain together well enough to tip his head forwards, he is less than pleased to see Dean still stood at the bar, drinks in hand as he flirts with the v-neck guy from earlier. They’re stood closer together than is probably advisable in a bar like this; and the guy, who is a couple of inches shorter than Dean, is tipping his head backwards and looking up at Dean from beneath dark eyelashes. 

Dean’s got that cocky grin on his face, the one Sam recognises from a million bars, a million school hallways, a million diners. It’s that grin that says _follow me and I’ll show you a good time_ , a look that Sam now thinks Dean should only be directing at him. The guy looks spellbound, smiling up and leaning into Dean’s space as if he’d drop to his knees there and then, and Sam suddenly can’t take it any longer.

 

He’s on his feet and halfway across the bar before he’s aware he’s standing, long legs powering him towards his brother with more purpose than he’s felt all night. Dean’s got his back to him, but the other guy sees Sam coming and his face shows fear before he pouts, a little bratty. If Sam had time to think about anyone other than Dean, he’d given the guy some credit for not simply pissing his pants at the sight of an angry Winchester making a beeline for him. 

But Sam is laser focused on his brother. His mind seems to have shorted out, and all he can see is Dean, the bar fading into insignificance around him. He’s not sure what’s happening, why he’s suddenly so incensed by his brother hitting on a guy, but he knows it has to stop.

He’s moving so fast he almost stumbles as he halts in front of Dean. He spares a short glare for v-neck guy before turning to his brother. There’s another interminable moment of staring, before Sam’s arm shoots out without his permission, grasping Dean’s bicep.

Tugging, he hustles his brother out of the bar. Dean doesn’t utter a word of protest, just shuffles along behind Sam with a half-grin on his face, and they leave v-neck guy stupefied in their wake. Sam’s probably bruising Dean’s arm but at this point he doesn’t care; he’s acting on instinct alone. 

There’s a light rain falling as they hit the car park, misting across Dean’s face and almost making him glow. Sam spots Baby tucked away in the corner of the lot, as far from the other cars as Dean could put her for safety, and he speeds towards their first home. As soon as they reach the Impala he pulls Dean forward and shoves his brother against the car, and Dean’s back hits the paintwork with a thump. 

Dean sways slightly as he lands, but keeps his feet with his usual grace. Sam on the other hand loses control of his feet and stumbles forward, crashing against Dean. He braces himself on the car behind, hands on either side of Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s eyes glint green in the moonlight, locked on Sam’s, and the roaring in Sam’s ears is drowning out all conscious thought. 

Sam flashes back to that moment when Dean, under the influence of the spell, had presented himself for Sam to do whatever he wanted, the moment that’s been haunting his memories for weeks. 

Almost as if Dean can read his mind, he slowly stretches his arms above his head and clasps his hands together, leaning himself back over the car. It stretches his chest out and brings his heavy muscles into sharp relief, tightening his tshirt across his nippes. He keeps his eyes on Sam as he moves, almost daring Sam to act. 

Sam’s nerves are paper thin, and the provocation, combined with the alcohol thrumming through his blood, is enough to snap his self control. Lunging forward, he grasps Dean’s wrists in one hand, bending his brother further back. A quick look down shows Dean biting his full lower lip, and Sam can’t bear it; he swoops in and bites Dean’s mouth himself, before sliding their lips together almost violently.

There’s nothing sweet about the kiss; weeks of tension contributing to their mouths moving fiercely against each other. It only takes Sam a moment to take control, pushing his tongue into Dean’s mouth and pressing their bodies tighter together. Dean’s rocking his hips already, pliant between Sam and the car, and Sam pulls back to look down at his brother.

“Was beginning to think you’d never do it,” Dean pants, chest heaving.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean, ‘I’d never do it’?” 

Dean has the grace to look ashamed, not meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Have you been trying to seduce me?” Sam asks, incredulous. 

“Kind of,” Dean murmurs.

Furious at the way Dean’s being playing him, Sam pushes him even harder against the car as he fumbles to get the door open. He’s distracted by the way the movement causes his leg to slip between Dean’s and the instinctive way Dean grinds down against him, but finally his fingers remember how to work the lock and the door opens. They tumble onto the back seat, Sam on top and still pressing Dean’s hands down. He immediately lowers his mouth again and within seconds the kiss is deep, both their mouths open wide. 

Sam uses his free hand to start feeling across Dean’s body, working out the places that make him moan. He quickly pushes up Dean’s shirts, getting his hands on the soft skin of Dean’s belly and running his fingertips through the downy hair below Dean’s navel. It reminds him, shocking and powerful, of how this had start and how he’d nearly lost Dean; and he bites down hard enough on Dean’s lip that he thinks he draws blood. Dean just moans, wrapping one bowed leg around Sam’s hips, and Sam lets go of Dean’s wrists long enough to urge, “Off, off.” 

Between the two of them they get both Dean’s shirts off, quickly followed by Sam’s; both uncaring of the fact that they’re still in a parking lot with the back door of the Impala wide open. As soon as their chests are bare, Sam gets one hand back on Dean’s wrists and runs the other through the sparse blond hair on his brother’s chest, tugging lightly. 

“I never want to feel like that again,” he says, intense.

“I seem to remember enjoying it at the time,” Dean quips. Sam stares down at him, incredulous; unable to believe that Dean has remembered everything all this time. 

“You little shit,” he mutters. “I’m gonna make you pay for this.”

“Looking forward to it,” Dean responds, mouth quirking. His attention drawn back to Dean’s mouth, Sam can’t help but lean forwards to kiss his brother again, hair brushing against Dean’s face. He pulls back for a moment, watching as he pinches the nipples he’s been thinking about for weeks. Dean whines beneath him, clearly sensitive, and Sam bends down for a quick bite. Dean’s back arches and it’s Sam’s turn to grin.

“Don’t move your hands,” he orders, pressing Dean’s forearms firmly against the leather of the seat.

Using both hands, he reaches between them for Dean’s fly, quickly pulling his brother’s pants and boxers down to mid-thigh. He gets his hands on his own zip, enjoying the sight of Dean spread out in front of him; his pale, freckled skin contrasting with the leather seats. Even in the moonlight he can see the flush spreading down Dean’s chest and even better, the bite mark above Dean’s nipple where Sam had maybe been a bit too enthusiastic in tasting Dean’s skin.

He pauses briefly, thinking that maybe, just maybe, they should take this a little slower; and then Dean moans, writhing against the seat but keeping his hands carefully in place, and any thoughts of delaying disappear. Sam’s been thinking of an imaginary Dean lying underneath him for weeks, and he doesn’t have the self-control to pass up the real thing for an ill-conceived notion of how long people should wait before having sex.

His mind spins for a moment at that thought - having sex with his brother - but then the tequila and the lust propel his mind onwards a little further and he pushes his own pants down. He lowers himself so that he and Dean are pressed together again, cocks lining up for the first time. It feels so good that Sam’s eyes slam shut and Dean makes a heart-wrenching noise beneath him; but even then, still keeps his arms stretched out beyond his head. 

“Well done,” Sam can’t help but praise, getting his left hand back on Dean’s forearms. Kissing Dean again, he starts to rock his hips down. Now that he has something to push up against, Dean starts to move his own body more vehemently, and it takes them only a couple of minutes to find a rhythm. Its jerky and uncomfortable, given the cramped conditions of the car and the restriction of both their jeans, but Sam doesn’t care because it feels so damn good. He’s racing towards the edge far too fast, should slow things down so that their first time lasts a little longer, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Dean’s eyes are rolled back now, mouth open in tiny little gasps as his lips move against Sam’s. He’d expected Dean to be more of a talker but he’s quiet, and he’s the hottest thing Sam has ever seen, not least because he’s so clearly lost in his own pleasure. Sam’s trying to get his free hand down between them so that he can start jerking them both off, but every time he moves he’s distracted by a new part of Dean to touch: the dip of his ribs, the cut of his hipbone, the biteable place between his collarbones; and really, they’re doing well enough just grinding against each other.

“Sammy,” Dean says suddenly; emphatically He eyes pop open for a minute and lock on Sam’s before rolling shut again, and Dean arches up off the seat, hips pressing into Sam’s. Warm come seeps against Sam’s cock and he groans at the thought that its Dean’s come now slicking his way. He moves his hips faster, watching as Dean comes down from his high, eyes fluttering open. Dean looks sated and happy, mouth twisting wickedly as he grins at Sam.

“Come on, Sam, come on me,” he says, throaty, and that’s it, Sam loses control with a shout and does indeed come all over Dean’s stomach. The sight of the white streaks covering the hairs on Dean’s stomach, so closely associated with Dean’s safety, is enough to draw out his orgasm, and he shudders above Dean before burying his face in his brother’s neck. Dean smells of him now, faintly, and that causes one last full-body shudder before he’s done.

As he comes back round, he becomes achingly aware that his feet are cold from sticking out into the night air, but he can’t bring himself to care about it. He’s managed to manoeuvre himself so that’s he’s not got all his weight on Dean, but a fair portion of it still is and he’s somehow tucked his head under Dean’s neck, the spot he used to sleep in as a child. He’s finally let go of Dean’s wrists and his brother is running a hand gently through Sam’s hair, pulling at the tangles.

Sam’s brain is only coming back online slowly, so he’s unable to catch himself before he blurts out, “You were trying to seduce me!” He twists his neck around so that he’s able to look up at Dean.

“Not exactly,” Dean starts, sheepish.

“And you remembered everything,” Sam continues. 

“Yeah.” Dean’s definitely slightly ashamed this time.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Sam demands.

His brother huffs beneath him, the movement of his chest jostling Sam’s head.

“I-” Dean starts, and then pauses, unsure. “I wasn’t trying to seduce you, Sammy, not exactly. It was just, I remembered, and I remembered how good it was, and how you seemed to want it.”

Dean stops again, and Sam waits, keen to hear more. Dean is unforthcoming, so Sam jams a finger into his ribs.

“Ow!” Dean yells. “You little shit. Ok. I remembered, and I knew you remembered, but you’d seemed so put off by the brothers thing. And i didn't want to force you and I was worried you wouldn’t want to because you know, brothers, so…” 

“So?” Sam asks, unused to Dean being so willing to share his feelings, and revelling in it.

“So,” Dean takes a big breath. “So I thought I’d just put it out there and see what you did, and if you didn’t want to then I’d know.” 

Sam’s exasperated. “I thought you didn’t remember. I thought I was the world’s biggest creep.”

“That’s probably still true, you were pretty creepy with that girl earlier,” Dean agrees, and Sam jabs him again.

They lie quietly for a moment, listening to each other breathe, Sam’s hand wandering gently across Dean’s chest and Dean still stroking Sam’s hair.

“Should we try to drive back?” Sam asks eventually.

 

“Too drunk and too sleepy,” Dean replies, mouth stretching around a yawn. “Lets just sleep here. Baby’s as good a bed as any.”

Smiling, Sam straightens carefully and drops a soft kiss onto Dean’s mouth. He curls his legs in and reaches back to pull the door shut behind him. Its cramped on the back seat, it always has been; but it just means he’ll have to cuddle closer to Dean and that’s not a bad thing.

“Seems right, somehow, that we spend our first night together in the car anyway,” he says, sleepiness and tequila making him a little more vulnerable than usual.

“Our first night? There gonna be more?” Dean’s attempt at cockiness falls far short, insecurity lacing his voice.

Sam summons every ounce of bitchy little brother he can find at short notice, while drunk and fucked-out in the back of a car. “Well, duh,” he replies.

“Oh fuck you, Sammy,” Dean says, but he pulls Sam closer and presses a kiss to Sam's hair, and Sam has never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my [Tumblr](https://soy-em.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [Tumblr](https://soy-em.tumblr.com/).


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